Hell
by thefangirllife
Summary: Hell is thinking that he had changed. This is my take on what Sherlock's chlidhood could have been. -Anonymous T for language and triggers. (Written by someone who chooses to remain unknown. -AmandaDiNozzo)


_Author's Note: This fic contains severe child abuse, mentions of eating disorders, self-harm, and suicide. This fic also lightly implies that Sherlock has Asperger's Syndrome. This is a work of fiction derived from BBC Sherlock._

_I own nothing._

_**Hell**_

_By: Anonymous_

The marble wall jarred his jaw, forcing his teeth to clench and therefore scrape off one another. The sensation was an odd, sensitive, hollow, jarring release of energy, sending billions of pain signals to his brain. He cried out, almost silently, decidingly swiftly, as if he knew what _he_ wanted. Knew what _he _enjoyed. Knew when _he _was going to want screaming. To want whimpering. To want begging. He instinctively cowered beneath his shaking hands, his fingers unconsciously entwining with his ebony curls.

'_Wet.'_

'_Sticky.'_

'_Blood.'_

Hot tears spurted from his eyes, spilling down his withering face, catching on his cheekbone. He did not dare look into the face of his attacker; for his was a face that so resembled his own that he felt as if he were the man towering over the skeletal, trembling, sobbing form of a teenage boy on the floor. He knew that if he made eye contact, _he _would only smirk a hideous smirk sinister and evil enough

His Father was his own personal Hell.

A Hell that hung over him like a menacing cloud at all hours of the night and day.

A Hell that drove him half to insanity, into depression, into anorexia, into insomnia, into sinking a chilled blade into his flesh as an outlet. To six suicide attempts. To hate and anger and frustration and repulsion at the idea of _anyone _who asked questions. To stashing bottles and bottles and bottles of sleeping pills under his bed for the night when he just couldn't _take it anymore. _He wanted relief. Relief from Father, relief from the constant whirring and spinning of his defected brain, from everyone who called him a worthless, spoiled, stupid, son of a bitch that couldn't live up to his brother's legacy. From the names. The insults hurled at him like invisible torpedoes; each striking a more devastating blow than the last. They ripped him to shreds. Everyone did. He just wanted it to be _fucking _over.That was all he wanted. Sherlock just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. He just wanted this miserable, pitiful, useless existence to be over.

"Don't try to fucking hide, Freak." The man spat, a sneer twisting his lips into a snarl. The teen's quaking hands fumbled for a hold in his locks, his brain overprocessing the sensation of the blood on his hands until he could feel every _inch _of his blood-caked appendages stretching and pulling and shaking. The collar of his black t-shirt clung to his collarbone- to his neck- his chest-

'_Back-'_

'_Cotton-'_

'_Polyester-'_

"Hmmm…" The older man purred, beginning to pace in front of his son. "Stand up."

Sherlock whimpered and threw his back against the wall, his hands still entangled in his follicles, but now inching their way to the site of the injury. More wetness spilled over his fingers and down his wrists.

'_32 stitches-'_

He now heard the man's footsteps suddenly halt, stopping dead in front of the injured boy. Sherlock whimpered louder and allowed his knuckles to turn white on his head.

"Did you not _hear_ me?"

The teen curled his knees into his chest, hiding his face in his thighs. He could not stop his sobs any longer. He had ignored _him. _His chest and back convulsed as his lungs tightened to their limit, and his head spun and spun and spun and-

A brute hand yanked his head up by his sweat-drenched fringe, slamming his skull once again into the already-bloodstained wall. Sherlock bit his lip and brought his faucet eyes up, locking them with a pair of eyes so brown they could be black. The man's eyes softened instantly. He examined every feature on his son's face. His upturned nose. His ridiculously pronounced Cupid's Bow. His undeniably sharp and present cheekbones.

'_Whiskey.' _The scent was undeniable.

For a moment, Sherlock's breathing slowed. His brain felt numb. His Father looked at him with…sympathy. He scanned over his features with a kind expression. The man lifted his right hand to touch Sherlock's face. He ran his thumb along the cheekbone, feeling the boy's clenched muscles twitch and hearing his cries echo across the room.

"Shhh…"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Had he heard wrong? Did he just try to…comfort him? _He _who had inflicted the pain in the first place? Did he change? Did he realize that what he is doing? Did he- did he-

'_Does he _care_?'_

When the elder man's obsidian eyes locked onto Sherlock's crystalline green ones, his expression turned in an instant, and-

_Slap!_

The teen's face reddened on his left cheek, a handprint forming where his father's hand had just been.

The tears flowed freely then. He sobbed as he watched William Holmes stride away, stumbling through their enormous place with recklessness only a true alcoholic could display.

This- _this-, _Sherlock had decided, was Hell.

Pure, unadulterated, _Hell._

_**Hell **_**is thinking that he had changed.**


End file.
